Free Subjection by Alicia Cameron

and the ones you stole.”
    I continue to stare at him, his words landing on my ears like an alien language. The meaning sinks in bit by bit, in little pieces. He knows I stole training manuals. Soda. He knows how terrified I am. He wants a soda. And for me to get it. Calm down. My heart is racing and I can’t breathe, and I realize I’m having a panic attack, which must be why he told me to calm down.
    I nod, unable to speak because my chest is too tight and my tongue is too big and my mouth is too dry. My master looks on calmly, through me almost.
    I finally manage to force my legs to cooperate, and I get up and walk into the kitchen. I start crying, even though I know I’m being ridiculous, and I go to my knees in there, too, just for a minute, just long enough to catch my breath. Get a soda. Calm down. Show off what I’ve learned.
    It shouldn’t be this fucking hard.
    I stand up, shaky, and run some water over my hands and face, hoping my eyes won’t be so red. I take a few deep breaths, dry off with a towel I’ve left hanging off the stove, and take a soda from the fridge. I’ve never seen him use a glass for his soda before, so I don’t bring one, I just carry the can out and crack it open before handing it to him, still silent.
    He doesn’t say anything, which I’m glad for, because I’ve apparently gone non-verbal for the moment. A thousand thoughts inside my head, and I can’t even manage a “yes, master” out loud.
    We spend the better part of two hours with me serving him, or bringing him things, or showing things off. Unlike the position training, this doesn’t require me to move my arms into any painful positions, and I can perform as expected. He is pleased, and while he isn’t overly congratulatory, he shows his approval. I’m elated to be smart and successful again, even if it is just fetching drinks.
    He sends me to retrieve my tablet, and I take notes while he rattles off his preferences for drinks and food in various settings. As a brothel whore, I never had to worry about things like that. At some point, I remembered what my clients liked, but that was going above and beyond my duties. If I hadn’t recalled, or didn’t bother to try to recall, they’d tell me, quickly, and correct me for doing it wrong.
    As a personal slave, I realize it’s important for me to know that if my master says “get me a drink” at home when we’re alone, he probably means a soda, and if he says it in the casual bar he goes to with Bobby, it probably means a vodka martini, no olives, and if he says it in a place where his superiors will be, like at the Peace Day Celebration, it probably means a classic, sophisticated cocktail, like an old-fashioned. It’s important because it makes me look attentive and obedient, and it’s important because my master doesn’t have to waste any more time than necessary ordering me around.
    He drills the preferences into me, and orders me to memorize them.
    “Think that will be enough to keep you busy?” he asks.
    If it was anyone else, I would think he was joking, but he’s always so serious. “I’m sorry, sir,” I mumble. I want to tell him how I could help with his business, how I could learn and join like a real person, but I don’t. I consider offering to let him fuck me, but what purpose would that serve? He can do anything he wants, and he doesn’t. He lets me sit around like a spoiled house pet, and I repay him by sneaking around behind his back. I’m lucky he hasn’t sold me, yet. “I’ll do anything you want.”

    I was impressed with Sascha’s demonstration, not to mention his quick learning, although it’s not proper to tell him that. Just like it isn’t proper to ask how he had so flawlessly installed the software on his tablet, a feat I doubt I would have been able to accomplish, much less a slave. Every slave trainer I’ve ever met would have suggested I punish him for that, but I saw it for what it was; exploration, a desire to learn. I